A Ghost Among Ghosts
by picascribit
Summary: After the Battle of Hogwarts, some insubstantial remnant of Voldemort survived - barely enough to be called a ghost. When Delphi returns, he can do no more than stand by and watch, knowing that her actions might change everything for both of them. HPCC compliant. Podfic available at AO3.
1. The Tall Man

How poetic a fate is this. In life, I hungered for immortality. My only fear was death, and it was that fear that saved me from oblivion. Now, I drift the halls of Hogwarts, insubstantial as the mist that flees before the dawning day. I exist, and that is all. Because of the steps I took to preserve my life, in death I have less substance even than the other ghosts who inhabit the castle. Only in darkness can I be seen at all, and then, only just. I am a ghost among ghosts.

The students call me "the Tall Man". They speak of me in fearful whispers, if they speak of me at all, and they avoid me when they can. They know my other name, too, but none of them fears to speak it now. No child now attending the school was alive to remember me. They do not know that I am still here - that I am the shadowy presence they fear. In the beginning, I tried to speak to some, to tell them my true name, but they heard no more than the breath of a whisper, and fled from me in fright.

As the years passed, I learned to keep my silence. To watch and listen and wait. In death, I have at last learned patience.

The doors of the castle open, heralding the start of another school year. The beginning of a new cycle in the rhythms of the castle. Children enter, bright-eyed with excitement and fear. They do not see me standing in the shadows, watching. Their lives are so small, but I envy them. I, who have lost all. When they enter the Great Hall, I follow, drifting behind.

One by one, they are summoned by name. One by one, they step forward, placing the ancient Hat upon their heads and waiting for it to tell them their destiny. Some of the names are familiar. Some of the faces are dimly-mirrored reflections of faces I once knew.

A boy with the Malfoy name and face hurries to the front, looking anxious. When the Hat declares him a Slytherin, he seems pleased. And why not? Slytherin is the House of greatness. It was my House, and first true home. I can only wonder what this boy's self-serving, traitorous family have told him of me. He need not fear my vengeance now. He and his family are beyond my reach.

A few more are Sorted, and then - A face so familiar that I would catch my breath, if I still breathed. Black hair. Green eyes. Thin, brown face. The Potter boy. This one bears no scar of prophecy upon his brow, however.

His name is read out, and I laugh softly. Potter has given his son the names of my great enemy, Dumbledore, and the traitor, Severus. The boy's jaw clenches in determination as he places the Hat upon his head. A moment passes, and then another, as the Great Hall holds its breath in expectation.

"SLYTHERIN!" the Hat declares at last.

There is a deafening silence. The child on the stool freezes in uncertainty. The Malfoy boy calls out to him, smiling, as the rest of the hall erupts in whispers.

I throw back my head and laugh. Potter's son, Sorted into the House that was once my own - the House that gave me so many of my followers in life.

Students sitting nearby edge away, wide-eyed and shivering. They had not even sensed that I was there among them. One leans closer to another, casting a fearful glance in my direction, and whispers, "The Tall Man ..."

I want to tell them that is not my name, but I cannot. I have no power to make myself known, or to affect the world around me in any way. The only power I have left is the power to watch and to exist, endlessly, deathlessly. This is my immortality. Be careful what you wish for.


	2. The Promise of Slytherin

Sometimes, it feels like a century or more has passed since I came to haunt these halls; others, no more than a day. I mark time by the rhythms of the castle and the passage of the seasons, though winter's cold cannot touch me anymore than can the summer sun. Twenty years, perhaps, since betrayal brought me to my final, disastrous fall.

When the castle bustles with activity, I listen: to what the staff speak of quietly amongst themselves, to what the students say - and do not say - about the presence of the Dark Arts in the world, to the children and grandchildren of my former allies and sympathisers. I listen for a word, a breath, a hint that I am remembered - that some still revere me, longing for my return, and the return of the world I promised them. But as the years pass, the mentions grow fewer. None of these children fear, or even remember me. I have nearly as little substance in their minds as I do in the physical world.

Another summer comes. The castle is empty, but for house-elves, and a few professors and visiting scholars, taking advantage of the quiet to conduct their own research in the school's renowned library. They speak to one another little, except at mealtimes, and I am left to my own endless thoughts.

I drift out into the grounds, invisible in the sunlight, wondering for the thousandth time whether this pale immortality is worth clinging to. What hope have I for anything more than this? Perhaps I should let go - let myself fade away altogether - and discover at long last whether there is anything beyond this earthly life worth knowing about.

In the distance, a figure steps through the castle gates. Drifting closer, I see that it is a young witch, dressed in the plain black robes and wide-brimmed hat of a scholar. There is something familiar about her. Something that draws me to her. Curious, I follow her up the path to the castle.

On the threshold of the entrance hall, she hesitates. Her expression is furtive, as if she knows she should not be here. Instead of climbing the great staircase to the library, she turns and follows another familiar path, down into the depths of the castle.

At the door to the Potions classroom, she raises her wand. " _Alohomora_."

The lock clicks and the door opens. Grinning with impish delight, she slips inside.

The classroom is still and silent, waiting for the return of the students. Afternoon sunlight streams through the high, narrow windows that line the far wall.

The strange girl does not hesitate here. She strides with purpose to another door at the front of the classroom, and again taps the lock. The storage cupboard opens to her, revealing its wealth of gleaming jars, bottles, and boxes, stocked with every imaginable potion ingredient. The strong, musky scent of that cupboard is still sharp in my memory, though that sense is lost to me now. Only sight and hearing remain. I focus both on the mysterious intruder, trying to deduce who she might be, and what her purpose.

Stepping into the cupboard, she removes her wide-brimmed hat. Her hair spills out, silver and blue.

A memory stirs. Bright, fanciful hair. An impish smile. The metamorphmagus. Bella's blood-traitor niece, who was an auror. There is something of her in this girl. I dimly recall that she whelped for her werewolf mate in the final days of the war. A child with such colourful hair was a student at the school not so long ago. I paid it little mind. It was only a Hufflepuff. But surely it did not have the presence and vibrancy this girl possesses. I would remember that. I remember all the ones with the potential for greatness. I am certain I would recall if I had seen her before.

No, something about her stirs a different memory. Not of Bella's family, and certainly not of that sorry excuse for a werewolf. Something so familiar that it is almost a physical sensation, just beyond my grasp.

When she leaves the dungeon classroom, the stolen ingredients tucked into her pockets, again I follow, intrigued by the mystery of her, as I have not been intrigued by anything since I lived.

This time, in the entrance hall, she does turn to the great staircase, glancing around warily to make sure she is not observed. When she reaches the first floor, she pauses again, before proceeding down a familiar corridor, to the girls' toilets. There are toilets on the ground floor, and in the dungeons. There is no reason for her to come so far and so furtively, unless -

"Who're you?" a petulant voice demands.

The girl starts, then frowns at the ghost of a pigtailed and bespectacled child. I used to know this girl's name, when she lived. It is not important now. It never was. She is no one. My quarry appears to feel the same. Pointing her wand at the ghost, she says an imperious word. With a _whoosh_ ing sound, the ghost girl flies backward, and disappears down a drain.

Striding to the sinks, the silver-haired girl bends her head, examining the taps closely. A glimmer of something like excitement burns in my mind. There can be no doubt about it. She knows the secret concealed within this room.

" _Open_ ," she murmurs.

With a grinding sound of stone on stone, the sink moves aside, revealing the entrance to a secret passage.

So the girl speaks Parseltongue - that rare magical gift of Salazar Slytherin, bestowed only upon his true heirs. Excitement growing, I follow her down into the darkness.

The light of her wand illuminates the passageway, but my kind do not need light to see by. It is dusty now, and littered with fallen stones. How long has it been since I myself first came this way, in search of my destiny and true inheritance? And now comes another, perhaps seeking the same.

As the girl approaches the end of the passage, her face shines with a mixture of trepidation and avarice. The light of her wand ignites sparks of emerald fire in the eyes of the intertwined serpents, carved into the stone with such artistic skill that they appear alive in the flickering light.

" _Open,_ " she commands again, and the serpents part, the stone wall splitting in two to reveal a cavernous space beyond: Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets.

Without hesitation, she steps through, her wand lighting a small circle around her in that great space. The high ceiling and the far end of the room are lost in shadow.

The light glints and gleams off white bone. Bending, she reaches out a hand to trace the curve of a great, empty eye socket, an expression of awed reverence on her face. I knew that the Potter boy had slain Slytherin's magnificent monster, but it is something else again to see those bones laid bare, just where they fell. Only the great, curving fangs are missing, taken for trophies no doubt. It is a bitter thought. I cannot help recalling my own sweet Nagini, the only living creature I ever had much care for in life. She, too, was slain by Gryffindor's sword, before my very eyes.

Rising to her feet, the girl spreads her arms wide.

"I'm here, Father," she says, eyes shining with fierce determination. "I've come at last."

So it is she. The child Bella and I created. I should have seen it at once. Those eyes, so like the ones that looked back at me from the mirror in my youth ... A strange sensation comes over me as I gaze upon this last living remnant of my own flesh and blood. I feel so little anymore, but this feeling is stronger than most: the sensation of having a mortal body - a connection to the world of the living.

 _Delphini_ , I call to her, remembering the name Bella gave her.

A quizzical frown furrows her brow. She turns her head, as if searching for the source of a sound. She has heard me. I am sure of it. And if she can hear -

"Father?" she calls, high and uncertain. The voice of a child.

I try to speak to her again, but the effort to make myself heard once has used up most of my strength. I can feel myself fading. It may be days before I am able to make my presence felt again.

But when she lowers her wand, shielding the light behind her hand, it is clear that she sees something. A faint glow or an outline, perhaps. A sense of my presence at the edge of her awareness.

She raises her chin, squaring her shoulders, proudly and fearlessly facing whatever she senses or sees. Her voice rings out. A declaration. A promise:

"If anything of you remains in this place, Father, hear me: I've come for you. I'm going to bring you back. And together, we'll build a new world."


	3. The Destiny of Three

For more than a score of years, I have been powerless and without purpose. I could sow fear, but only a hollow fear. A fear of shadows. Now, hope has returned, in the form of a girl, the necessity of whose existence I once doubted.

It was Bella's idea to give me a child. How proud she was, to offer herself as the vessel for my seed. And how disappointed, when I told her that no child of mine would be conceived by undignified Mugglish means, but only through the purity and power of magic itself. She hid her disappointment well, though, and served her purpose without complaint.

As the child grew within her, hidden and secret beneath her robes, I warmed to the idea of it: someone to serve at my right hand, bound to me by blood, closer and more trusted than any of my followers. It was born, too, in secret, only weeks before my fall. Even Bella's own sister, in whose house it was born, knew nothing of it. Only I was present, and a house-elf, serving as midwife. An ignoble enough beginning for the life of one who would surely rise high.

I had planned to reveal the child to the world after I dealt with Potter, before the twin betrayals of Severus and the sister brought an untimely end to all my plans. I had not thought about the child since then, or considered what might have become of it.

Now she has returned, promising to restore me to my former glory. How, I do not know. I hope that she is more like me than her mother in the making of her plans. Bella was always reckless. If the girl is to succeed, she must employ great cunning and care.

When Potter appears at the school, accompanied by his red-haired wife, and that weak-willed creature, Malfoy, seeking their missing sons, at first I do not see the connection. But when the children reappear in the lake, babbling about a time-turner, I begin to understand.

My wonder grows as Malfoy's son describes seeing a world in which my powers were undiminished - and how close that world came to eclipsing this one. They do not mention the girl, but I sense her hand behind it. How near she came to succeeding - and might yet succeed, if the time-turner, lost in the dark waters of the lake, can be found.

It is surely a portent: a child of mine, a child of Potter's, a child of Malfoy's - the destinies of three families inextricably intertwined. How right that they should serve as the unwitting tools to bring about my return.

 _Do you still see with my eyes, Harry Potter?_ I murmur, a whisper on the wind.

Potter shivers, glancing over his shoulder, but quickly dismisses the feeling.

I resolve to stay close to the sons. If they are truly the key to my return, the girl will find them again.

My faith in the powers of Destiny is rewarded when the Malfoy boy reveals to the Potter boy that the time-turner was not lost, after all. He has it still, wanting to assure himself of its destruction.

 _Fool,_ I laugh silently. _You will be your own undoing._

I have heard the rumours. There are some who believe this boy to be my son. Another story involving a time-turner, but false. How absurd to think that such a soft, sensitive creature could bear any relation to me. The Potter boy is soft, too; full of fear and feeling. They are weak, the pair of them, and it is they who will be destroyed when the world is set right.

I follow them to the Owlery, and there, just as I predicted, the girl appears, bright as the moon. She toys with them at first, pretending to agree that they should destroy the time-turner. Until the foolish, trusting Potter boy puts it into her hands. The Malfoy boy is more wary of her, but by now, it is too late. They are no match for her. Within moments, she captures and binds them, sweeping them down from the tower to the Quidditch pitch.

I swell with exultation as she taunts them. There is another prophecy, she tells them. The boys do not understand. They do not see who she is - what her place is in all of this, and theirs. She, the Augurey, heralding my triumphant return, with her at my right hand. They, the sacrifice that must be paid for the resurrection of the world I dreamed of.

"We won't. We won't obey you. Whoever you are. Whatever you want us to do," shouts the Potter boy, defiant.

" _Crucio!_ "

The girl laughs as the Malfoy boy falls before her wand. The Potter boy looks on, anguished, helpless, as if the pain were his own, love making him weak, bending him to her will.

Another boy appears suddenly, unknown, unimportant.

" _Avada Kedavra!_ " she cries, without hesitation.

He, too, falls, and does not rise again.

The girl speaks the words of the prophecy, and I revel in them, gathering them to me and making them part of myself: " _When spares are spared, when time is turned, when unseen children murder their fathers: Then will the Dark Lord return._ "

A flash of gold, and the time-turner activates, snatching them away, beyond my sight, beyond my reach, and once more, all I can do is wait and see what will happen.

In more than twenty years of shadowy existence, time has never passed more slowly. I wait in Minerva's office, knowing that if there is word of a plan to rescue the boys and save this pathetic version of the world, it must surely come there, most likely in the form of Potter. But it does not.

I wonder whether I should have tried to do something more. To communicate with the girl. To take possession of her mind. If I had, perhaps I would even now be where she is, seeing with her eyes, with the power to effect change in the world of the living once more. I do not know if such a thing is possible. What unknown powers lie in this connection of shared blood? I never thought to learn.

Two days pass, and I feel each minute crawl over me, as if I still had skin. And then -

A great, silvery head thrusts itself through the window of the headmistress's office. I shrink back. Ghosts are not fond of patronuses. The silver dragon opens its gaping maw, and the voice of the bumbling gamekeeper emerges.

"Sorry ter disturb yeh, Professor McGonagall, Ma'am, but there's summat happenin' down by the Quidditch pitch."

They are all there: Potter and his wife, Malfoy, the two sons. And the girl. Her hands are bound, her head bowed, hair hanging down to hide her face. The vibrancy of her presence is subdued. She has failed.

Potter, looking grim - almost haunted - keeps his wand trained on her as he slips a time-turner into his pocket. Even at a glance, I can see that it is different from the time-turner the girl used to steal the sons away into the past. The others appear disturbed and exhausted. There is no triumph in their return; only relief at finding their world unchanged.

"What in Merlin's name happened? And who is this woman?" asks Minerva, bewildered.

"It's a long story, Professor," says Potter wearily. "I'll tell you, but first I need to contact my office. This woman is responsible for the death of one of your students, not to mention criminal tampering with the past, and a host of other crimes. She requires immediate escort to Azkaban, to await trial."

Potter leads the defeated girl away, while his wife and Malfoy take charge of the sons.

And I ... one might perhaps expect me to rage and despair that Potter has once again managed to foil my plans. But why should I? All is not lost. As long as Delphini lives, so lives a part of me. While these three fated bloodlines persist - while even one time-turner remains - there is hope that one day I shall return.


End file.
